


i had a dream it would end this way

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community College, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Paintball, Study Group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 05:00:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20651594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: "Okay, it's not too bad," she says briskly. "It's not even that much blood.""It'sblood," he says incredulously. "I think that counts astoomuch."Or, the one where they’re in community college and get wrapped up in a campus-wide paintball game that gets too much too fast. Bellamy finds he might not mind it as much as he thought.





	i had a dream it would end this way

**Author's Note:**

> _bff prompt: Bellarke as Jeff and Britta in the Community episode, Modern Warfare. (A summary if you're unfamiliar- J & B are in a Spanish study group in community college, all year they've had a sexual tension filled frienemy relationship. There is a campus wide paintball game, they are two of the last students in the game, Jeff gets injured, as Britta patches him up, they joke that the study group would love this, the 'wounded soldier' fantasy. Leads to a kiss, then sex. Back to paintball betrayals_

As far as weird schools go, Ark Community College really does take the cake. The lines between social cliques are hard to navigate, the administration is constantly running low on cash but somehow always manages to keep the fencing club funded, and Bellamy's pretty sure that Cultures and Civilisations 311 is nothing but a doomsday prep class in disguise. 

Forming a study group was never part of the plan. He'd really only done it so he would have an excuse to spend most of his time with a book, avoiding other people under the cover of a seemingly legitimate excuse. He'd walked into the library one day, saw the blonde girl from his Spanish class—Clarke—sitting at a large table all by herself, and found himself asking if he could join her before he'd even really processed it himself. The next day, Miller plopped down next to him with an uncracked Spanish textbook, and then Monty and Jasper were next, dragging Harper in along with them. An engineering TA named Raven started joining in a week or two later, usually to tend to her grading responsibilities. Murphy strolled into the library one day, sat down in a corner, and never left. 

It became a thing pretty quickly. Sure, the others could be annoying, especially when they were constantly bugging him about their personal problems that he never signed up to care about. And yeah, Murphy's snarky attitude could get old real fast. And sure, Jasper accidentally called him "dad" that one time. But to his surprise, he found that he was _ good _ at taking care of this weird band of misfits. Even more than that, he actually _ liked _it.

One thing he's not so sure he likes is the _ Clarke _of it all. 

Okay, fine. He's attracted to her. He'd have to be blind or gay not to be. She's got that whole daddy-issues-rebellious-good-girl thing going on, with the low-heeled knee-high boots and skintight jeans and leather jackets. Her hair's always doing this thing where it somehow manages to look like someone's just run their hands all through it, and definitely not in a non-sexual way. Also, she's _ smart. _ Like, scary smart. To the point where it outright baffles him that she's even in community college, instead of some Ivy League institute gladhanding future senators and cancer curers. (He gets it for Raven and Monty, not everyone can afford opportunities like those, but he's _ reasonably _sure Clarke comes from a good deal of money.)

But she's _ argumentative, _ and bossy, and opinionated, and she can be _ completely _ tactless sometimes, and _ fuck, _ does it ever get on his damn _ nerves. _ They fight about _ everything _ —whether to use _ tú _ or _ ti _, who gets to partner Harper in a pairs project (Harper had eventually taken the diplomatic route and paired up with Miller, so they'd ended up paired together instead), if Jasper should really switch majors at the end of the year or not, if it's better for Monty to work part-time in retail or F&B. 

It wouldn't annoy him as much if the study group didn't seem to be _ enjoying _ it all so damn much. The constant looks exchanged both behind his back and in front of it, the barely veiled remarks on him and Clarke's _ "unresolved sexual tension", _ the blatant gawking whenever they get into yet another argument. His life is _ not _a daytime soap, much less his whiplash-inducing, exhilarating-yet-confusing, non-stop push-and-pull dynamic with Clarke Griffin, thank you very much.

Besides, he has more important things to worry about. Like making it through the last week of the semester.  


* * *

  
  


The first thing he notices on Monday is that everyone's _ buzzing. _

He walks into the library with a frown. "What's going on?"

Clarke shrugs. "Some big end-of-year announcement's coming up, apparently. A really big one."

He arches a brow as he slings his backpack down onto the table next to her. "Bigger than the temporary llama petting zoo for Easter?"

Miller hums. "I never really got that. What do llamas have to do with Easter?"

"Everybody sort of likes them, but nobody really knows why," Harper volunteers.

"Whatever it is," Raven grumbles, "it can't be as bad as Free Taco Tuesday last year."

Jasper frowns. "What's wrong with free tacos?!"

"They're free," Raven says darkly. "That's what's wrong." At the blank looks she receives from the rest of the group, she sighs before leaning back in her chair. "Look, something always goes on in the last week of the school year. And it's always a _big _something, and it's always weird as _fuck, _and more often than not, it makes people around here go a little crazy. I'm just saying, it won't hurt to be prepared."

"That's insane," Monty says, glancing around the table. "How can we prepare for something we don't even—"

The chime of the PA system cuts him off. 

"Attention, students," the measured voice of Dean Kane filters in through the speakers. "Welcome to the very last week of the school year. Congratulations on all the hard work put in by students and faculty alike..."

As the dean rambles on, Bellamy's gaze cuts to Clarke. She's got on a frown to mirror his, her blue eyes meeting his readily. 

"Now," Kane says, "as for this year's end-of-semester event. We are proud to announce a campus-wide paintball competition taking place at 3pm this Friday. The competition is open to all students not graduating this year, and there are no rules on fair play. The very last person standing without a single speck of paint on them will receive the grand prize: _ Priority registration." _

A hush immediately falls over the entire _ school. _The skin on the back of Bellamy's neck tingles.

"That's right, the lucky winner will get to choose their classes and schedule before everyone else," Kane continues obliviously. "Once again, the competition begins this Friday, at the first bell. Good luck to all!"

The silence lingers in the room long after Kane's sign-off.

"So that's what it is," Jasper breathes. 

"That's big," Monty agrees, eyes wide. "_ Majorly _big."

Bellamy blinks. "I don't get it. What's so good about priority registration?"

Harper's mouth falls open. "You get to choose your classes before _ everyone else." _

Clarke looks grim. "You could pack in a full day of classes on a Monday, and take a six-day weekend if you wanted." She swallows. "It's… it's brilliant."

"Ah." He nods, cheeks flushing with the revelation. "Well. That _ is _big."

Raven shrugs. "Told y'all." 

* * *

  
  
  


The energy on campus is _ weird _all week. 

On Wednesday, he does a double-take as a familiar head of tousled blond hair passes by. "Wasn't that Riley?"

Clarke hums noncommittally.

"Aren't you guys friends?" he asks, confused. "How come he didn't say hi?"

"Probably because of Friday," she says.

He rolls his eyes. "Don't tell me people are actually taking this whole paintball thing seriously," he says, attracting dirty looks from a couple of students passing by. "It's just a _ game." _

"It's not just a game," Clarke says, infuriatingly calm. "It's paintball."

"Okay, well," he says as they reach the door to his next class, "this is ridiculous. I'm probably not even gonna play." 

Clarke scoffs. "Everybody's playing, Bellamy," she says cryptically, and walks off in the direction of her own classroom. 

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, and heads in for his lecture.

* * *

  
  
  


To be fair, he probably should have known he would end up right here. Holed up in the library with the doors barricaded, sweating right through his navy T-shirt (the jacket he'd had on at the beginning of the day nowhere to be found), bleeding through an honest-to-God cut on his side as Clarke directs him to their usual study group table. (Well. It's really more of a scrape than a cut. But there's still _ blood. _)

He tosses his paintball gun aside, the weapon clattering onto the table right next to her own. "I can't believe this. This is all Echo's fault. I _ said _ I wasn't playing, and she _ still _ shot at me. What was I supposed to do, _ not _shoot back?!" He hisses in equal parts pain and surprise as Clarke slowly peels his shirt upwards to reveal the wound.

"Okay, it's not too bad," she says briskly, turning towards a set of cupboards along the far corner of the library. "It's not even that much blood." 

"It's _ blood," _ he says incredulously. "I think that counts as _ too _ much."

She snickers, returning to the table with a first aid kit. His brows lift in surprise—he'd never even known that was there, hidden in the corner all this while. 

"I told you everybody was playing. Hold your shirt up," she instructs him, her hands moving quickly to soak cotton balls in a cleansing solution. "This might sting a little, but it'll be worse if you move."

"No awards for bedside manner," he grumbles, but bites down on his tongue reflexively when she presses the cotton to his raw skin. 

"You're doing so great," she deadpans, gently dabbing the cotton along his wound. "Keep it up, and you'll get a big old lollipop from the front desk after this."

"Ha, ha," he intones, but his mouth is quirking up at the corners despite himself. He watches her reach for a tube of antibiotic ointment. "You're weirdly good at that. Why are you weirdly good at that?"

He thinks he might catch her pausing, but it's over before he can really decide. "Not sure. Although the two years of pre-med might have something to do with it."

"Pre-med," he echoes, brows arched high. "Huh." 

She doesn't look up from her work. "You can just ask it."

"Ask what?" he says automatically.

"So," she says, deepening her voice in what he thinks is supposed to be an imitation of his baritone, "how'd you end up here?"

Her tone is light, but her face is pinched, a distinct dent lodged in the space between her brows. How many times has she had to answer that question, even when she didn't really want to? 

"Actually," he says instead, "I'm just glad no real sick people have to put up with your shitty bedside manner."

Her eyes dart up to his, mouth falling open slightly—but then she catches the small smirk curving across his lips. She grins unexpectedly, wide and bright, her head dipping back down as if to try and hide it. "Asshole." 

A weird, warm sort of feeling starts balling up in his chest. He's never really made her smile before. Roll her eyes, sure. Huff impatiently, yeah. Groan in annoyance, plenty. But never _ smile, _ and certainly never like _ that. _

He's also never really been truly, completely _ alone _with her before, without any of the group around. 

Cheeks flushing hotly, he clears his throat. "Bet the group would love this, huh. Us being nice to each other for once." 

She snorts as she presses a large bandage to his wound. "Oh, yeah. Me patching you up in the midst of battle, the rest of campus raging on while we hide out all alone in here? That's a textbook wounded soldier fantasy."

He suddenly realises that she's standing right between his spread legs, her hips cradled by his thighs. Rushing to shove the thought aside, he barks a laugh. "Yeah, we'd never hear the end of it. Can you imagine if we actually hooked up right now?"

She laughs too, but her fingers press the bandage tape against his skin a little harder than usual. "_ So _cliched. Can you imagine if we actually kissed right now?"

He laughs again. So does she.

But then she looks up, her face turning to meet his—and all of a sudden, neither of them feels very much like laughing anymore. 

"Shit," he mutters, before grabbing her head in both his hands to press his lips against hers. 

Five minutes later, they're both on top of the study table, their positions flipped around so he's on top, and he's exceedingly grateful that they've blocked off all the doors and windows. 

"Just so you know," Clarke pants against his temple right after he gets his hand under her shirt, "this is still cliched as fuck."

He bites down a groan when her leg wraps around his, pulling his hips tighter against hers. "Oh, trust me," he says, flicking her bra clasp open. "I know."

  
  
  


* * *

Clarke wins the game two hours later. She gets the drop on him right as they discover they're the last two survivors, landing a paint pellet right in the middle of his torso.

"Sorry," she says, shrugging unapologetically. "But it was either you or me, baby."

He would probably be mad in any other situation, but frankly, it's hard to focus on anything that isn't the rumpled blonde waves around her shoulders (and exactly how they got that way), the fresh sensation of her warm skin under his hands, and also the fact that Clarke Griffin is _ extra _sexy when she's all arrogant and triumphant like this. 

"That's okay," he says, one arm wrapping itself around her waist. "Think I prefer this prize anyway."

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? feelings? opinions?


End file.
